Monday, 6 January 2014

A poem by Wendy Klein


Himself

My landlord in Llandudno had a deaf Jack Russell
that yapped and whined continuously, 
snuffled at scraps that fell from the table
its square black snout twitching,
while its agile tongue hoovered up.

Sated, it would present its taut belly 
for stroking, fart luxuriously, 
fall asleep and snore.

Undifferentiated id, said my landlord,
and I had a vision of the man himself
in all his simplicity, clamouring
for attention, while silently
ferreting out, wolfing down,
furtive snacks, the dregs of drinks,
crawling into bed at all the wrong times
hungry, hungry, hungry.



Wendy Klein was born in New York, but has lived in the UK most of her adult life.  She has been writing poetry for about  12 years and has two collection with Cinnamon Press:  'Cuba in the Blood' (2009) and 'Anything in Turquoise' (2013).  Published in many magazines and anthologies, she hopes to manage another collection, or maybe even just a chapbook, before she pops her clogs.  Dogs, dancing and poetry keep her alive a day at a time. 

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